


Shovel Talks

by onelonelystory



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of Death, Revolution, au where it's moderen, but honestly we don't go very deep into that in this side story, except if france was a political hellscape with no regard for the intrinsic value of human life, let me know if I am missing any tags, oh right all the jokes are very hard to find and funny only to me, painfully flowery language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelonelystory/pseuds/onelonelystory
Summary: "I owe you none and would kill for you. Killing, Oh righteous one, is a cheap offer when I have time after to wallow in the guilt of it at the bottom of a bottle. It’s a lesser debt than the cost of a cake. Grantaire I would die for."Or, Enjolras doesn't understand why the entirety of Paris feels the need to tell him they would die for Grantaire.
Relationships: Bahorel & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Feuilly & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Gavroche Thénardier, Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire & Jean Valjean, Grantaire & Joly & Bossuet Laigle & Musichetta, Grantaire & Montparnasse, Grantaire & Musichetta, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 148





	Shovel Talks

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note before we begin; this is a side story to a very thorough epic length les mis au fic I've had outlined for like a year and worry I may never get around to writing, so it is entirely possible you will be left with absolutely no context for this ever. That said, if you have any questions leave them in the comments and if I can answer them without spoiling too much just in case, I will.

After a particularly grueling shouting match with Grantaire over bystanders sometime around the 3rd month of Les Amis de l’Abaissé, Eponine pulls Enjolras into an empty back corner of the Musain and stares him in the eye.

(“You cannot expect strangers to unequivocally condemn and report whatever wrongs they happen to encounter,” Grantaire had hissed, angrier than Enjolras thought a man without passion could be. “That argument works maybe on the matter of primary school bullies, but by age eleven we develop this grand thing called complex morals. It is more often the victims and whistleblowers who get hurt than the perpetrators, because the bystanders are rarely the ones with power. There are other factors at play once the issue is not stolen crayons.” Enjolras, caught up in his rebuttal, hadn’t noticed Eponine’s hands going white around the arms of her chair.)

“What can I do for you?” He asks, because Eponine has been nothing if not helpful to the cause, even if she was a terrifying woman.

“I believe in your cause.”

Enjolras nods slowly, perplexed. He hadn’t doubted it; Eponine had been with them from the very start, had never missed a single meeting.

“Grantaire thinks it is impossible.”

Enjolras scowls, but Eponine gives him a look and he snaps his jaw shut.

“I definitely believe in your cause more than Grantaire does, and I wish you all the luck. But I’m here because I would die for him, not because I think following you is the right thing to do.” She smiles, steals his drink, and walks away, tossing a “have a nice evening!” over her shoulder.

This is the first time a member of Paris’ underground found it necessary to tell Enjolras they would die for Grantaire, but it is certainly not the last.

(The next week, the motion to add anti-bystander actions to their ever-growing, legally dubious agenda came to deliberation. Enjolras watched for Grantaire to make his obligatory contradiction. Instead, Eponine’s voice came from her usually silent seat beside Gillenormand’s grandson.

“I would like the floor.”

“Accepted,” Combeferre says, after a bit of a stunned pause.

She stuck her chin up high, stared straight ahead, and began, “My name was once Eponine Thenardier.” 

She spoke for over twenty minutes, the most Enjolras had ever from heard her.

The motion did not pass.)

* * *

Enjolras has never been a man to blindly follow corrupt systems, and he is far from above breaking the law when necessary. So in a particularly sweltering July evening, in the ally behind the Musain, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire were waiting on a delivery from Patron-Minette. 

(Grantaire was opposed to this alliance, for reasons he wouldn’t name. He didn’t oppose Enjolras’s claim that Patron-Minette was the most moral of the Parisian gangs, or that they’d be the most willing to affect actual change, and his lack of substantial arguments in his disagreement was uncharacteristic. Even when it seemed to spit in the face of everything he stood for, Enjolras usually couldn’t deny that Grantaire’s dissent was well formed.)

Enjolras was not expecting the leader of the gang himself to jump from the fire escape 10 minutes after they were set to meet.

“Dramatic fucker,” Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras moves to elbow him in the gut, because they cannot afford to risk their relationship with Patron-Minette. 

His arm is stopped by the foot of Montparnasse’s cane, the man’s eyes closed and fixed on the sky.

He gently shoves Enjolras a good distance from Grantaire before stumbling slightly. A look of panic, or maybe concern, flashes over Grantaire’s face.

“I,” begins one of the most powerful men in Paris, “am so hungover.”

Seeing him like this, Enjolras realizes the man could not possibly be older than 20. His face is boyish and he ducks his head as if expecting some sort of chastisement. Grantaire laughs loud and clear, pulls the leader of the most notorious gang in Paris into his arms and ruffles his hair. Said gang leader’s infamous poker face slips ever so slightly into a grin when Grantaire walks inside to grab a glass of water.

“Never changes, that man,” says Montparnasse, towering intimidatingly over Enjolras. He looks less boyish now. “He has a bruised rib from your last altercation with the police. Try and harm him again, and it will be the bladed side of my cane Grantaire will not be around to stop.” Enjolras swallows, but keeps his wits about him.

“What’s he done to deserve you killing for him?” he asks, because he cannot imagine what Grantaire, of all grossly unmotivated people, could have done to bring a gang boss into his debt.

“I would kill for many people,” Montparnasse says, with an unfairly attractive sneer, “And I have. I intend to kill for your cause as well, or I would not be here.”

“Still, it’s not a simple debt,” Enjolras protests.

“Oh, it’s hardly a simple debt, but I owe you none and would kill for you. Killing, Oh righteous one, is a cheap offer when I have time after to wallow in the guilt of it at the bottom of a bottle. It’s a _lesser_ debt than the cost of a cake. Grantaire I would die for.”

“Why?” Enjolras almost exclaimed, “What debt could _you_ possibly owe _him?_ ”

“My life, and my love,” Montparnasse says dismissively. “And, I suppose, my lover.”

Enjolras chokes a little. Montparnasse winks lavasiously and strikes his cane loudly against the rails, and is gone before Enjolras recovers from the sound. Combeferre coughs from where he has been standing relatively unnoticed and fails to cover up his laugh.

(Within a week of their attempted meeting, information Les Amis cannot acquire through conventional channels starts showing up at Enjolras’s doorstep in gift wrap. Enjolras doesn’t see Monteparnasse for a very long time after.

The first dossier comes taped to the top of a cake box.)

* * *

No one is quite certain what to make of Jean Prouvaire. He says his name ‘Jehan,’ like no one has called themselves in France since the Industrial Era at latest. He’s tall and slim and waif-like, dresses himself in pastels and adorns himself in flowers. He’s a poet, a dreamer, and a gentle soul, and somehow he’s become entangled with an often combative assembly of student revolutionaries. He isn’t studying to be a lawyer or a doctor like the rest of Les Amis, he’s studying dance, and though he can oft be found chatting away with Marius - and by extension, Eponine - they only met at the first L’Abaissé meeting a few months ago when Marius complimented the chrysanthemums pinned to Jean’s lapel. So far as Enjolras can tell, there is no reason for Jean ‘Jehan’ Prouvaire to have ever walked through the doors to the Musain. 

But he is goddamn glad he did.

By the time Enjolras finds himself calling him Jehan in his own head as well as aloud, Jehan has proven himself invaluable to the operational conduction of the organization. He is cool headed and rational, but provides a much-needed reprieve from the solely revolution minded intentions and agendas, reminding them all that there would be no Paris, let alone France to save if they forget about the will and lives of her people. He pushes them to invest some of their time into community outreach that does not soon devolve into madness and fighting. 

In the brief history of Les Amis de l’Abaissé so far, Jehan has gone along with their rallies and their demonstrations, but he’s also put together something of a town hall, where people wax on about what troubles them with the government, or even just life itself, all they want a few hours a week in the back of the Musain. It has kept the people of the city appreciative of Les Amis’ efforts, and the insight into the will of the masses keeps their agenda from getting too high hat when they’ve been looking too long at the brightness of the future they hope to build. 

Jehan Prouvaire is dedicated and patient, and when he storms out of the Musain one evening in the middle of a discussion, everyone is at a loss for what to do. Enjolras, who is never at a loss for action, sprints after him into the night.

“I rather like you,” Jehan says, perched from the stair rail without turning to look at Enjolras. “I think your dedication to a revolution and a good future for the world and her people is noble and admirable.”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, overcome with a sense of déjà vu. “What have I done tonight to compromise this?” (Upon reflection, weeks later, Enjolras remembers going into a tangent about addiction, how the world cannot afford to suffer the compulsion of the weak. He’d meant the inclination to crave power, but is angered at himself for the ambiguity nonetheless)

“Nothing,” Jehan says, but he still doesn’t look back. “I appreciate your flaws for who they make you as a person. It is not a good thing that you forget everyone in the room and the lives they lead and the struggles they have overcome, but without your tunnel vision I don’t think you could muster the passion it takes for your ambitions to seem so realistic.” He jumps off the rail and down half the flight of stairs, landing neatly with a practiced ease. “But Enjolras? I would die for Grantaire.”

Enjolras starts wondering if dying for someone means something he wasn’t aware of.

(One day, when he’s killed enough and almost died enough and the fires are settling in the distance and he’s laid up in a hospital, he thinks about all the people he would die for and decides it means exactly that and nothing less.)

* * *

Gavroche is 13 years old and an absolute menace. He can be found under the tables or in the rafters or the vents of every building you think he cannot reach. He’s called _le petit renard_ more often than his own name, whether affectionately or with a sneer as he flees to the rooftops with a cackle. He’s very fond of Combeferre for reasons no one can really decipher, and he emulates Grantaire to the point of hero-worship. He’s got his own ratty green beanie and a sketchbook he won’t show anyone and everything.

Enjolras thinks he is too young to be hanging around Les Amis, but he says nothing because he trusts Eponine to push her siblings into the best lives their situations will allow. If Gavroche is here, it is because the alternative is worse.

“What are you thinking about?” Gavroche asks, poking his head in through the window. They’re on the third floor. Enjolras yanks him in and stifles the heart attack.

“None of your business.”

“So, R.”

Enjolras starts. “Why would you think that?”

“‘Ponine and ‘Parnasse told you they’d die for him and you’re confused.”

“Jehan did too,” Enjolras says, absently resigning himself to Gavroche’s omnipotence.

“Huh. I figured he’d hold off for something a bit more explosive than that. Guess R’s recovery’s always been a soft spot. You’re an asshole, by the way.”

“I have yet to understand what I did wrong.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

Enjolras throws his hands into the air. “Combeferre isn’t home until 6 tonight, what are you doing here, Gavroche.”

“R taught me how to read,” he says instead of answering. “And so I would die for him. But he wouldn’t let me. Tomorrow, you’re going to take him aside and give him a present. I literally don’t care what. Or else.” With that, he offered a jaunty salute and dove out the window.

Enjolras put his head in his hands and let out a strange keening sound from the back of his throat. Courfeyrac pops in from the other room, concerned.

“You okay there, Enj?”

“I am so confused,” he laughs madly. Courfeyrac pours him a cup of coffee and pats him on the head.

(The next day Enjolras gives Grantaire a couple tarts he spent the night baking and a book on the impact of art on revolutionary movements throughout history. Not because he’s scared of Gavroche, or anything, just because he’s scared of Gavroche. Also, he knows Grantaire adores raspberries and when he’d seen the book at a corner store a few months ago he couldn’t help but think of him. It’s a perfect chance to try out a recipe and give him the book like he’d been meaning to.

Grantaire laughs delightedly at the book, and while he seems to brush it off as a joke that he would ever read a book on revolution, Enjolras notes how his fingers graze subconsciously, reverently over the paintings on every other page. Then he takes a bite out of the raspberry tart and makes an obscene noise, and Enjolras gets a little distracted.

It turns out it was his birthday, and Enjolras feels achingly guilty for forgetting. He brings up this concern to Courfeyrac, who just gives him an odd look.

“Enj,” he says slowly, “You spent 5 hours last night trying to alter proportions for a tart recipe just to accommodate R’s favorite fruit. How could you not notice you were giving him a birthday present?”

Enjolras doesn’t really know how to respond to that so he just pouts and gets to work on making a birthday cake.)

* * *

Musichetta began as just a kind barkeep who allowed Les Amis to rabble rouse within her walls. Then she and Joly (or maybe Bossuet? Or both? Enjolras isn’t 100% sure but whenever he asks he gets laughed off) started a romantic dalliance, and she started expressing her passion for their cause. She’s an outspoken woman, and any of her patrons will attest to how much of a pillar she is to her community. Her involvement with Les Amis lended them credibility from the start, and her becoming a full-fledged member these last eight or so months has made people finally stop viewing them as agents of chaos and youthful mistakes.

In the time Enjolras has known her, he’s never once seen her lose her composure. He wishes she would sometimes, when hecklers and dirty old men who feel entitled to her throw slights against her character, smashing their bottles and glasses. But no, she’d just offer a quick nod of her head and they’d be politely escorted out by Bahorel, who played bouncer when he wasn’t drinking or bemoaning his law school woes.

Then one day when Enjolras walks into the Musain with Combeferre, Bahorel is holding Grantaire back by the shoulders, Musichetta has a bloody hand over a wound under her eye, and some smarmy bastard is smirking at the three of them and cleaning blood off the rings on his right hand with a pastel blue handkerchief. Two other equally smarmy bastards flank him from both sides. 

Enjolras’ mind catches up to the madness just in time to hear Grantaire, low and dangerous and dead-serious, “‘Chetta, get yourself to Joly, or a hospital. I’ll deal with this shitstain.”

Musichetta is silent for a moment before she faces the sink to wash off some of the blood. “I don’t want any broken glass,” she whispers, so softly Enjolras barely hears her from the other side of the bar. Combeferre jumps the counter to tend to her eye until Joly can get there with a suture kit, and Enjolras turns his attention back to Grantaire.

“Bahorel?” Asks the man in question, in a voice so cold it sends a shiver down Enjolras’ spine.

“I’ve got your back.”

The two of them fly forward before anyone else has a moment to blink, and Bahorel has the two henchmen pinned as Grantaire lifts the perpetrator half a foot off the ground by the collar of his shirt. “We’re hitting you back sevenfold, fucker.” The other man swings his right arm, making for Grantaire’s face, and Enjolras moves to help him, but Musichetta’s hand lands gently on his shoulder, holding him back. Grantaire drops the man just in time, and lands a solid punch to his nose as he falls.

“I’d die for Grantaire,” says Musichetta, even and unperturbed despite the chaos around them. “But I know when he’s in over his head, and now isn’t one of those times. He’s got Bahorel, you jump in now and you’ll mess with their sync.” 

Enjolras sits down. It’s strange to him, not to jump into the fray of things, but it’s Musichetta asking. 

“Also,” she adds, like an afterthought but with a vicious enough smile that he knows it’s genuine, “You break his heart, I break your legs and string you from my roof like a banner.”

Enjolras nods absently.

(He’s too caught up watching how Grantaire looks in the heat of a fight, moving with an ease and grace his opponents severely lack, playing off of Bahorel like each motion of each person was predetermined and Grantaire knew what path to take to win from the moment fists started flying. 

He had a gleam of passion in his eye that Enjolras was slowly realizing he couldn’t call unfamiliar; it was there everyday in glimpses, in every word Grantaire ever spoke, in every action he ever made, flashing forward before being reigned in by caution and cynicism. It seeped through the pages of his sketchbook whenever he sat drawing in the corner of the room, gleamed through the layers and layers of defeatism he draped over himself. Now watching him headbutt an aggressive prick before smiling through blood Enjolras was 87% sure wasn’t his, he realized that Grantaire, despite his best efforts, was so intrinsically, irrevocably passionate Enjolras was almost envious of it.

He also realized he was intrinsically, irrevocably in love with Grantaire, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from him long enough to freak out about it yet.

Three hours later, when they’d cleaned up the mess *cough those bastards cough* and seen to Musichetta being passed into Joly’s suture-kit-filled arms, Grantaire shot Enjolras a crooked grin through a split lip and an achingly soft “goodnight, Apollo,” before heading home, and Enjolras dove into Combeferre’s understanding arms to incoherently babble for too many minutes. He’s still at it when they arrive home, and Courfeyrac laughs at his pain and kisses him on the forehead.)

* * *

Enjolras is kind of in love with Feuilly. Or, more accurately, he kind of wants to be Feuilly. Two years ago, when Enjolras had been speaking with Professor Lamarque about his intentions to form Les Amis, the professor had introduced them, and Enjolras has been enchanted ever since.

Feuilly had never attended university, had in fact dropped out of secondary, but he was still one of the most knowledgeable people Enjolras knew. He made a living for himself through some form of craftsmanship, but he doesn’t talk about it often, and when he does it is in passing. His true calling has always been in words, and he had blown embers of revolution throughout the city for years before Enjolras ever even moved to Paris. Feuilly helped Enjolras make Les Amis a reality, his only stipulation being that he wasn’t asked to lead in any way.

(“I’ll offer any help you may need,” he had said, “But you kids are going to have to run this revolution. I’ve reached the point now where change seems too distant to amount to much; I don’t want it enough.”

“You’re barely a decade older than me,” Enjolras had protested, “You have so much life ahead of you to make better.” But Feuilly just smiled and Enjolras had agreed.)

Since then, Feuilly had become a trusted friend and a close confidant, and when Enjolras discovers that he is in love with Grantaire, his third instinct is to ask Feuilly for advice. His first instinct is to lock himself in his apartment for the rest of his life, slowly becoming an urban legend to all save for the pizza delivery boy. His second instinct, far more outrageously, was to listen to Courfeyrac.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Feuilly is saying to someone around the corner when Enjolras walks in. “He’s known for how long that you’ve grown up with Patron-Minette? He knows you can handle your own in a fight, he’s not going to hate you for standing up for ‘Chetta. And don’t go thinking you were too harsh, we both know he got what he deserved. Enjolras once dislocated a man’s rib for threatening to out the Musain to the police, I think he understands vindication just fine. Jesus Christ, Grantaire, chill the fuck out he literally runs a people’s revolt.”

Enjolras freezes in the hallway.

“He’s never been so quiet about his disapproval, though, he hasn’t yelled at me all week,” cries a familiar voice. “I keep catching him staring at me, and there’s a look in his eyes. A look! ‘Chetta won’t even let me drown my sorrows anymore.”

“Good. Listen, R, you’re kind of scary when you fight, you know? If you’re convinced he’s avoiding you, maybe he’s just intimidated. He’s never seen that side of you before.”

“No!” Enjolras yelps, jumping out from where he’d accidentally been hiding. “I’m not… he’s not… Hi, Grantaire, how are you today, you look nice.”

“... Thanks?” 

“Oh my god, I’m too old for this shit.” Feuilly wacks Grantaire over the head with one of his fans. “R, either confront Enjolras and talk about your feelings, or get out of my apartment.”

“Peace,” says Grantaire, grabbing his coat off the wall. He pauses briefly to smile an achingly gorgeous smile at Enjolras. “See you later, Apollo.” He closes the door behind him.

“Hngggg,” says Enjolras, melting into the floor.

“So you found out you’re in love with Grantaire, huh?” Enjolras nods. “Was it the murder eyes?” He nods again. “Yeah, those fell the masses. You either see them and run for your life, or…” Feuilly gestures in Enjolras’ general direction.

“What do I do?” Enjolras whines, “He’s just so pretty, like _all the time_ can he please give poor Paris a break?”

“Wow, that is just uncanny,” Feuilly says. “Get up, child, he stole your heart, not your legs.”

“Feuilly, I can’t even look him in the eyes, he thinks I’m scared of him, what do I do?”

“First of all, he’s like a spider, he’s far more scared of you than you are of him. Secondly, remember that you’ve been in love with him for literally two years and he’s been just as attractive the whole time. I would die for that boy but this is an unwarrented reaction.”

“Two years?” Enjolras tries to remember if he was in love with Grantaire two years ago and recalls, for some reason, their first argument.

(“What difference could you possibly hope to make?” Grantaire had asked, with as much passion as one might use to ask the time. “You and a ragtag crew of the lowly serfs of Paris are going to change the world?”

“Yes.” 

“Quality entertainment. Alright, Apollo, I’ll be there.”)

“Fuck, I’ve been in love with Grantaire for two years.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

* * *

The first time Enjolras meets M. Jean Fauchelevent, the man is so furious at the idea that his daughter has taken up with thieves and hooligans he nearly knocks down the door as he storms in. Cosette, who has been a model Junior Amis for a little over a month at that point, blushes apologetically. M. Fauchelevent is a stately man, despite the faintly mad look in his eye as he rushes to shield his daughter from Marius, who is maybe as intimidating as a fruit fly. He is dressed in fineries few who frequent the Musain could afford, but seemingly carries none of the judgemental fear his type tend to bring when they deign to offer their presence on their side of town.

Then he removes his hat, and a disbelieving voice in the corner gasps, “Monsieur Valjean?” and M. Fauchelevent freezes.

Everyone turns almost in unison to face Grantaire, who for once doesn’t shy away from the attention. He’s too focused on Fauchelevent. 

The man swallows, and lets out in a broken little voice, “ _Mon petit r_ , as I live and breath.”

In a moment, Grantaire is across the room and has engulfed the Monsieur in his arms. He laughs through tears. “Am I not big enough to be Grand R yet?” 

The Monsieur, who towers half a foot over Grantaire’s 5’8” at least, swings him around and over the bar table, grinning into Grantaire’s collarbone.“Never.”

There’s a lot of crying, and hugging, and then Musichetta throws a beer can at Grantaire’s head with far too much grace and doesn’t cry, but does let herself be pulled into the hug, and Bahorel literally jumps over three chairs to tackle them, and Cosette looks very confused but she and Marius drag themselves into the fray and then everyone is in the giant hug pile including, strangely, Combeferre, except for Enjolras, who cannot handle human contact to such a large extent, and Eponine, who is sipping water cooly in the shadow of the broken lights. 

Grantaire pulls the Monsieur out to the alley for a long time, and when they reenter, he no longer has protest against Les Amis. 

After the meeting they crowd together, some dozen people packed into a single booth. Grantaire will not let go of the Monsieur’s arm, instead sitting tucked under his chin so close he may as well be on his lap, Musichetta mirroring him on the other side. Enjolras wonder if he himself is just barely tall enough that Grantaire would not have to stretch as he is now to fit neatly into the embrace, but stops that thought before it can get anymore dangerous.

“He was such a cute little one,” the Monsieur says, one arm tight around Cosette and the other entwined with Grantaire’s like they’ll both disappear if he’s not careful. Enjolras spent the last few minutes shaking off a jealous haze and is not sure how they’ve reached this point, but he wants to hear about little Grantaire so he doesn’t question it.

“I was a little monster.”

“You were,” Musichetta confirms.

“Shut up, _choupinette,_ ” Grantaire calls back delightedly.

“Settle down, children,” smiles the Monsieur. “I was talking about Grantaire and his squishy little cheeks.” 

“Hey, I had absolutely no meat on my bones when you knew me, I was a stick of a child. “

“That is true, he was like a little bobble head.” The Monsieur let the laughing die down before he continued. “He was a cute kid. No, hush, _mon petit r,_ he was the cutest kid. He used to ride up everyday on his little bicycle - the one with the old bell, no?- to swing from the branches we’d just pruned. The Madame of the house claimed to find him a nuisance, but she’d never call the police on him.”

“Always such a charmer, that boy,” grins Bahorel. “But maybe that’s because she only ever saw him when Monsieur Jean was around.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire blushes. “I’m always loveable.” 

“Oh, sure, but it didn’t hurt when you were on your best behavior,” Joly grins.

“‘Oh, Monsieur _Valjean,’_ he would say,” cackles, Bossuet, reaching out dramatically towards Musichetta.

“Lesgles, I’ll steal the soles of your shoes.”

“‘Oh, Monsieur _Valjean_ ,” Bossuet repeats louder, “I most certainly did _not_ jump the fence.”

“I slipped by the guards like a good upstanding citizen, are you proud of me?” Musichetta jumps in, an innocent look on her face.

“Guys-”

“Oh, Monsieur _Valjean,_ ” Jehan cuts in before Grantaire, rapidly turning into a tomato, can stop them. “Will you wear this necklace I certainly didn’t spend my lunch money for the month on?”

“Oh, ‘Chetta, isn’t _Monsieur_ simply amazing? Today he bought me dinner just because I said I hadn’t had any this week!”

“Bahorel, Bahorel, _Monsieur_ invited me to dinner with his sister’s family how do I look, I combed my hair and took seven showers, should I bring a casserole?”

“Children, children, _mon petit r_ was never nearly so subtle,” laughs the Monsieur. “He proposed to me once have I told you this?” he asks Cosette, who shakes her head. “I haven’t? How dare I, it was the sweetest thing, he asked my sister for my hand and everything.”

“Oh, my god, I remember this,” Musichetta remarks. “He came over to mine with this dead serious expression and bought one of my rings with his lunch money.”

“Oh, is that where he got it? I still have it, it’s one of my prized possessions.”

“ _Monsieur_ , I am delighted to see you back home, but I am afraid I must now depart to the ends of the Earth and never return,” Grantaire declares melodramatically.

“This is too good,” crows Courfeyrac. “It’s hard to imagine an R without that sharp bone structure, but pinning desperately after someone trying to teach him moral values…” 

Grantaire glares, and Courfeyrac cuts off, giggling. After a moment Grantaire sighs, laughs that dismissively self-deprecating laugh that Enjolras hates, and asks, “Can you blame me?”

(Enjolras _guesses_ he can see where Grantaire is coming from. The Monsieur is not an unattractive man, quite on the contrary in fact. He has broad shoulders, paired with dark coloring and a sharp sense of style. His smile is soft and paternal, and he has a gentle way about him that makes him seem hospitable, even warm. He is suave, yet reasonable, and Enjolras has absolutely no chance, does he?”)

They stay for hours, the local Parisiens recounting their lost days, until Musichetta notes the time and they all reluctantly head home. The Monsieur pecks Cosette on the cheek, pulls each of his old friends into his arms individually for a while, and strides over to Enjolras before he can slip out the door.

“So, you run this gang, do you?”

“We’re not a gang,” Enjolras protests automatically, “We’re a student activist group dedicated to proactive citizenship for a better Paris.”

“That’s what keeps you legal, then?”

Enjolras looks at him. “Pretty much. We do legal outreach with Parisians in reality, though. The confines of the law just make it-”

“Nearly impossible to enact real change, I know how it goes,” smiles the Monsieur. “You know, Monsieur Enjolras, you remind me quite a bit of who I was as a younger man.”

Enjolras looks at the Monsieur, down to his own hand holding his eighth cup of coffee of the evening, then back to the Monsieur in his crisp three piece suit. 

The Monsieur laughs. “Truly,” he presses, “You do. Anyway, you are not from Paris, I hear?”

“Lyon,” says Enjolras. “I moved here for university six years ago.”

“You’ve done quite a lot in such little time.”

“Thank you. It is not nearly enough, should we hope for a revolution.”

“It never is, is it?” The Monsieur looks contemplative. “Take care of Grantaire,” he says, putting on his hat. “I would die for him, of course, but it seems he’s jumped into a new class of things I could never hope to protect him from on my own.”

“You were gone for 13 years,” Enjolras puts in, straightening his coat. “Taking care of him isn’t exactly your job anymore, Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

He smiles, that very adult smile Enjolras hasn’t yet cultivated, like _oh, I remember being so young and foolish._ “Please, call me Jean,” he says, then strides out the door.

(Monsieur Jean, as it turns out, had amassed a great deal of wealth over the course of his years on the run, and was very willing to finance their -oft illegal- agenda, even acting as a sort of public face to sponsor their university-sanctioned activities. It reached a point where not even the full force of Enjolras’ jealousy could paint the man as the antagonist in any way. 

Later, when Enjolras is riding on the high of turning a new page in history, and Les Amis reminisce, Grantaire finds out about it all and laughs and laughs and laughs.)

* * *

Lamarque is dead, and Enjolras knows beyond doubt it was not illness. Children are being killed in the streets all through Paris, all through France, because the ruling class have finally decided to fear the power of the people. 

Lamarque is dead, and Enjolras could do nothing but grab his gun and walk glassy-eyed out the door. They said it was illness; they stole his martyrdom away with their secrecy and lies. Well, Enjolras will play martyr nicely. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had begged him to stop and think, but Enjolras had been thinking for years, and now Lamarque is dead before they can bring about their change. He will not let his head hold him back now, and his heart seems to have fallen silent too. It is a blessing. There is nothing to stop him.

Grantaire is in front of him suddenly, more unkempt than usual, hair in disarray, a paint covered black hoodie over his clothes, his signature green vest and shirtsleeves nowhere in sight.

“Combeferre called,” he says by way of explanation. He’s walking steadily closer, his stride never breaking even as Enjolras backs away.

“Then he must have told you you won’t be able to stop me.”

“I am quite a bit more stubborn than you seem to think I am, Apollo.” His steps pick up, and when he reaches Enjolras he pushes him down into a bench, boxes him in with his legs and gazes softly down at him. If Enjolras was breathing before he would have stopped, now.

“Let me just say goodbye to him as if this was not a dream,” Enjolras whispers, maybe to a god he’s never believed in before. Grantaire’s hands come softly to his face.

“Since I was a child I have been dreaming of a fallen revolution lead by the heavens,” says Grantaire, holding Enjolras’ chin between his hands. “And none I have met since have been more my God than you.”

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras says, desperate. “I am only a man, Grantaire, and this revolution has yet to fall, will you not allow me to seek my retribution? Will you ask me to shelf the scars and the rallies and the promises I have made my people?” He means for it to sound harsh, how it does when they typically fight, but his voice breaks into a sob and hides nothing. Grantaire’s forehead falls to his cheek, so he’s somehow blinking up through _Enjolras’_ tears and it’s so ridiculous he cries some more.

“I ask you nothing of the sort,” whispers Grantaire. “If I weren’t to fight by your side, I would still stand up when you faced the firing squad to fall by the first bullet sent your way. Enjolras, what you’re planning right now is suicide. So I need you to walk away right now. Go… go pick a fight with a friend over something dumb, kiss someone pretty, tell them you love them, take a breath and come back when you’re clear of mind with at least one less thing to regret missing out on, please?”

“I can’t,” Enjolras says, and the storm they’ve been brewing for years must have decided to break finally in Enjolras’ head because all he hears is the roll of thunder and the ring of a gun after it’s been shot. “I have to… I can’t”

“Then you’re going to have to wait for me to grab my coat, Enjolras, because I would die for you, and if you’re doing this tonight so am I.”

“What?” The pounding in his head stops suddenly, and he jerks back, clutching Grantaire by the shoulders and staring him in the eye. This promise means something to the criminal underground of Paris, Enjolras understands this. He searches for the appropriate response, for how to express his gratitude or whatever it is that he should be doing, but instead what comes out is, “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Grantaire smiles. “Now you’re getting it.”

Enjolras is pretty sure he isn’t. He takes one hand briefly off of his grip on Grantaire’s hoodie to swipe at the tears obstructing his vision, and glares. “You won’t die for my foolhardiness tonight.”

“I will if you will. The thing about a promise, you see, is it holds even when one party is being an inconsolable dumbass. So I, who has promised to die for you, will follow you through your grief, and if anyone has ever made the mistake to vow to die for me, they will follow me through mine. It’s a vicious cycle, O Fearless Leader.”

“Some leader I am if I can’t get you to leave me to my conviction.” He doesn’t mean it anymore. Well, he does, but he will not have Grantaire’s blood on his hands (or Eponine’s or Montparnasse’s or Jehan’s) when he doesn’t even understand what this promise means.

“I’m not dying for your convictions, Enjolras, but if you lead me to it tonight, I will die for you.”

“Please don’t pin that on me,” Enjolras whispers, the last of his mindless need for vengeance fading into an urgency to just _hold Grantaire here_ where he is _alive._

“I’m only telling you the truth, _mon dieu._ ”

“I am no god. Never let me be so heartless.”

“Heartless? You?” Grantaire laughs. “Never. Just remember, _mon étoile_ , the reason you can accept that wars have casualties but you cannot let me follow you to your grave is that a revolution, unlike an army, is made of people. We mourn for every individual who falls, not for the abstract idea of a soldier. If you worry so much for me, imagine the cry in the streets if your grief had allowed them to take your head.”

“If you died, there would be no one left to cry, because half of Paris would be fallen before you at your feet,” Enjolras mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me take you home, _mon soleil,_ you can raise the rabble after you give yourself a moment to mourn.”


End file.
